


de temps en temps

by LovelyBrutal



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Duct Tape, Flower Crowns, Love, M/M, Princess - Freeform, Rape Roleplay, Top Harry, a train of flower crowns driven by unicorns, larryislove, princess boy, they have a dog named Sasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyBrutal/pseuds/LovelyBrutal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis and their duct tape attempt a little rape roleplay.  It means more than they thought it would.  Sometimes love means letting him be your man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	de temps en temps

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is my first attempt at 1D fic. i'm new and delicate, so be gentle, please. i owe all my inspiration to a trip through Target with my truelove littlestar LittleGreyAche. Trigger warning: depictions of rape-play that take place inside a loving, consensual relationship.

de temps en temps. For truelove.

**

The wipers are too quiet as they sweep the snow away from the windscreen. I almost wish they would make more noise, just to feel something in the silence. Just for something to hold on to. 

The way it helps Harry to have something to hold on to at a party or a show, the way he holds drinks he doesn't drink or plates of food he won't eat. In just that way, I wish I had something to hold on to now. 

A sound. 

The wipers decline, being new and eager to fulfill their destiny. 

They tell me that I have to make my own. 

“I just dont know, like, why-”

“It's okay,” Harry cuts me off. “We don't have to talk about it. I won't bring it up again.” 

But that isn't what I want. 

The snowflakes fly at us like stars down the nearly deserted M1, and we throw ourselves back at them from inside the warm Audi. 

“I don't want you to not bring it up again,” I whisper. 

He swallows, and I know he heard me. 

I take a deep breath. 

This is the hardest thing I've had to say in a while. 

Giving my love to him is easy. But giving this part of myself – it's frightening. It's more than I've given before, to anyone. 

And I can't explain why I want to when it scares me so much. 

I could say I just want to make him happy. But it goes deeper than that. It turned me on from the minute he brought it up. 

I just don't want to jump into giving things that can't be taken back. I don't want what we have to change. 

“I want to try.” I turn to look at him when I say it. I want him to see my face. I want him to know what it means. 

He stifles a little smile and shifts his weight in the bucket seat. 

“What, now?”

I laugh. I didnt expect to. The sound is loud in the car, and instead of being something I can hold onto, it holds on to me. 

**

I stare at the Target bag Harry's placed on the breakfast island in front of me. It's nearly empty but I think I can tell the item that's inside. 

It makes my heart pound but I force myself to sip my tea. 

And swallow.

I am nonchalant. 

I am not even all the way hard.

“What's that?” 

He's putting his keys back on the hook, and kicking his pointy black boots off next to the door. Sasha greets him and he gives her a slow, two-handed scratch on her furry little cheeks before turning back to me. Her toenails click against the hardwood as she follows him. 

He glances to the bag, back to me, and gives the briefest hint of a smile before shrugging and turning away again, grabbing a croissant from the bakery box I brought home after my run. 

I turn away, not wanting him to see my blush. But as I pick up my copy of Catcher in the Rye and head towards the balcony with my tea, I hear him give at least half the croissant to Sasha, her happy little chewing sounds almost covering the rustle of him lifting the bag. 

I'm pretty sure my back looks nonchalant, but it's the only part of me that does.

**

Warm, and pure, and soft, and smooth, and warm. 

Sleeping late in this bed is more than a pleasure, it's a delicacy. 

More than just the white on white bedding, the down comforter that's been picnic table, bathrobe and pup tent. More than just the way the light streams in soft golden tendrils over the skyline, the silent greeting to another day in love. 

More than just the things that have been done in it. It's who I've shared it with.

It's pretty much the only place I've ever let my guard down. 

Like, all the way down. 

And when I can finally be here, the sunrise all over my skin and the satisfied feeling of being home glowing behind my eyes, it's just too tempting to roll over, clutching the covers and go back to sleep for a few more minutes. 

The sun is still morning-low when I open my eyes again, and there are footsteps. I vaguely recall him having an appointment to sign some paperwork, or maybe it was breakfast with his sister. I'm a little disappointed he left without waking me, but relatively certain I can tempt him back under the covers for a few minutes. 

“Did you remember to give Sasha her medicine?” I lift my head and call out, voice still sleep-scratchy.

No response but footsteps.

“Harold?” 

I know he heard me.

I sigh into the pillow, resigning myself to getting up out of this warm bed and hoping there's coffee when the sound of boots gets louder and the door bursts open, a figure in all black lunging towards me. 

It's my worst nightmare. 

I can't make out the face before he's on me, grabbing both my feet and dragging them off the bed. 

I try to turn, to get onto my back but but he twists my ankles against me, keeping me prostrate. I manage to turn enough to glimpse what appears to be a black ski mask, and i'm flailing as I feel something tighten around my feet. 

My hands reach out for something, anything, but only find helpless fabric, white cotton mute witness to my terror. 

Tensing my stomach, my searching hands miraculously find my phone in the bedsheets, and my heart jumps into my mouth. 

The intruder slaps it away before I can orient it in my hand, and I hear it skitter across the floor. 

But it wasn't as harsh as I expected. 

That hand. 

The little black cross tattoo. 

It's him. 

I know it's him. It's got to be.

Relief courses icy through my veins, but somehow I can't stop my heart racing. 

I can't stop struggling. 

He's only a handful of centimeters taller, but it feels like a half a meter as he leans over me, dragging my hips to the edge of the bed. 

“Please, please,” I beg, voice breaking into sharp little fragments. 

I hear duct tape being torn from the roll, and I let out a little whimper as I feel myself grow hard, my hips crushed into the mattress. 

“Oh God, please, please, God,” my voice falters as I turn my head as far as I can, hoping for just the reassurance of his unruly hair to confirm what I already know, but all I can see is black. 

Even his eyes, sea green playing with stormy grey, don't look the same as they wrap the duct tape around my wrists. They look cold, and cross.

The Harry I know has left the building.

The thought drags a nervous breath from my lungs, and a frustrated groan pours from my lips as I slide my arms against each other, testing the tightness of my bonds. 

“Shit, shit,” I stammer, mouth open against the sheets, knees shaking, as he drops the tape on the bed, and his voice is two octaves lower than i've ever heard it as he crawls onto the bed above me, presses his weight against my back and breathes low into my ear: 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

I grunt involuntarily, his body forcing the air from my lungs, and before I can try to protest, he's off me again. I hear his shoes come off, and a muffled sound of metal on metal. 

I turn my face towards the window still streaming champagne light, and listen to the unsure sounds of fabric behind me. I close my eyes and will my heart to stop beating so fast, my lungs to stop begging so greedily for breath. It's only him, I think, it's only a game, it's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay. 

I find my lips moving, and I'm embarrassed to have been whispering to myself. 

I open my eyes, and frolicsome green is drowned in a grey, grey sea, knit black covering the rest of the face I love. He bends down and places a flower crown on my head, slowly settling it into morning-messy hair, and it's coral roses. With little white sweet pea and tiny purple amaryllis adorning the wide open blooms, it's fresh, and the smell is luscious enough to get me high.

His voice glides on dark wings: “This is for you, princess.” 

And then he stands, and his cock is pushing past my lips, into my mouth. 

My throat closes in surprise, little mewling sounds floating up from my throat with each sharp little breath as I try to cope with the intrusion. Warm, delicate skin pulses life through my lips, his hips pumping slowly as he winds one hand into my hair.

He pulls me onto him, the head of his cock so deep in my mouth that I can't feel it on the back of my tongue, and while Harry's girth is hard to handle on a good day, it's made no easier by the disorienting angle. 

He hums, and I feel the vibration carry through him, blooming against my lips. His strokes grow harder, and I taste the first bitter drops as they spread around his length.

The scent of him is everywhere, so clean and cedar-warm. It provides comfort in the contrast. We usually go so slowly, savoring and teasing with every touch, every kiss. 

His fingers wind deeper into my hair, burying himself in my throat and I struggle not to gag. My hands try to come to my mouth, to press him an inch away, and the duct tape bites into my wrists. I think of playful green submerged in stormy grey, and my hips roll into the edge of the bed.

“You like that, don't you? Like sucking my cock?” 

My throat opens, and I lift my chin, extending my neck, trying to take it all. 

“Fucking knew you would.” 

He pushes again, and my lips touch the base of him, and I gag. 

He pulls out. 

“Little princesses love sucking cock, isn't that right?” 

I gasp for air, and try to stifle a cough as I open my mouth for him again, his cock glistening and glorious, just a whisper from my lips. 

His hand slides down my back. It's cold, and I can't help but tense as goosebumps rise up my arms. 

Cold hands mean he's nervous. 

If he is, he's doing a really good job of concealing it. 

“What else do princesses like, I wonder?” he murmurs, muffled inside the mask, his hand sliding under the waistband of my navy briefs. 

My shoulders tense against the cold and the tickle of his touch, my bound hands instinctively trying to push him away.

“Never mind,” he pulls his hand back and reaches across the bed. “I don't think I care what you like.” 

There's the distinctive sound of duct tape again, and a little surprised scream slips out before he leans down and tapes my mouth shut. 

My first thought is that Sunshine had better hope it doesn't leave a mark. 

But my next is that this is starting to get a little scary. 

My hands and ankles are restrained, and now I can only make muffled grunts if I needed to communicate something. 

But then I remember who I'm with. 

The one I chose from the first time I saw him in that bathroom. The one who knows me inside and out. When we write, or record, or perform, we read each other silently, perfectly. The muscles of his neck tell me if we're doing a one song or four song encore. The way my fingers wrap around a microphone tell him if i'm nervous. Our eyes meet, and the unspoken is spoken. 

He knows me better than I know myself. I don't need to say anything. 

I smile under the tape, feeling it tug at my skin. And I'm not afraid anymore. 

His hands are gone, and I hear a drawer open in another room, maybe the kitchen. When he returns, he grabs a rough handful of my ass, squeezing before running his hand down my briefs, pushing it in between my stiff cock and the sheet. 

The breath that slips from him shakes, and I know he can feel what I don't want to admit. 

That this is really, really fucking turning me on. And that I honestly don't know if I've ever been this hard before. 

This isn't me. Not being in control. Bent over, bound, breathless. It's not how i'm most comfortable. 

But it feels good, in this moment, to give that away and lose my footing. To kneel. 

And I wonder if it feels just as good to him to stand above me, like this. Cruel. Selfish. Shameless.

For now, I want this. I won't be sorry or shy. 

It is exactly what it is. 

He presses with his whole palm against me, feeling the firm outline of my need with hands that seem bigger than I remember them, and don't feel quite so cold anymore.

He withdraws his hand and lifts the left side of my briefs away from me. 

“You really ...” 

There is cold metal against my hip and I can't help but jerk away from it, but he steadies me with his free hand.

“Won't be needing these ..” 

The long, thin sound of scissors snipping fabric.

“Anymore.” 

He cuts again, through the waistband, and I feel the fabric fall away. He cuts the other side the same, and the scissors drop to the floor. 

I'm still wearing the white tee that I slept in, but I've never felt more exposed. 

My heart slams itself against my ribs, and there are stars inside my closed eyelids as he runs a slow, revelling hand against where I don't tell him enough I want to be his. 

Trailing a fingertip against me, I shudder in tense anticipation, and hear him chuckle in response. 

“I wonder if ...” he drags his fingertip up, along my spine, keeping contact as he walks around the side of the bed to the nightstand. 

His fingers are definitely not cold anymore.

He opens the drawer, staring into it with a muffled, mean laugh. 

“Thought a little pervert like you would.” 

He reaches in so slowly, taking out the little blue bottle. 

My mouth waters inside the tape. 

We don't do this often. It's not that we don't enjoy it, it just … doesn't seem to find its way into our sexual vocabulary frequently. 

Even when it does, it's usually not in quite this arrangement. 

I'm not used to taking Harry's cock. 

The few times that I have, it's been remarkable. Experiencing his excitement, his patience, and his love making my body its home feel like a kind of magic illuminating my soul. 

But it's challenging too. Being able to emotionally and physically relax myself, and let someone in, hasn't been my strength.

I know I don't have to. But I want to try. 

He knows I can be his man. I want him to see that he can be mine, too. 

I'm trying to make a mental note to tell him this later, but my thoughts are interrupted by the click of the bottle opening, and I can hear him warming the liquid between his hands. 

Struggling to relax as he presses, and slides, I think of his butterfly. Precious, delicate. Flutter-shy and extravagantly fragile. Wings with edges so velvety soft they blend into the air.

He groans as he gives me the first taste: not even the tip, just the slope of his head and I drive my forehead into the bed and listen to his steadying exhale, and know this moment. 

He's devastated with devotion. I know.

It's the same for me, every time. 

I swallow and brace for the movement, but he stills. 

Takes a breath. Another. 

“No.”

He moves away from me, and before I can turn around to see what's wrong, he's grabbing my tee-shirt by the back of my collar and dragging me upward, so I'm laying flat on my stomach. He kneels beside me, turning me onto my back, and takes the mask off, and it's him.

It's my love. 

The duct tape over my mouth is gone and I'm so overwhelmed with glorious gratitude that I don't even feel the sting.

His mouth is on mine in a heartbeat, full lips warm paradise moving with my own, and I'm arching with all that I've ever been to be closer to him.

He lift my legs up and bites the edge of the duct tape binding them, tearing through it with eager hands and he's kissing me again, as I open my legs around him. My arms are still bound beneath me, but I barely care as his kisses grow hungry, sinking his teeth into my lower lip. His mouth slides to my jawline, and my eyes close, wanting so much to be lost in him, to dovetail my heartbeat with his. 

He slides against me again, and I use the leverage of my newly freed legs to press eagerly into his cock. 

He leans up, his mouth open and nearly panting, his pulse visible in his neck as he  
advances, and it's the bliss of an open flame. He mutters “God” as I strain a whimper back. 

Steady-slow, he gives himself to me and green eyes beam such honest affection into mine that I can't help but return it. 

That's the thing about Harry. He's so invariably, effortlessly sincere. He can't help but be himself, and anyone who doesn't love that about him first is a fool. 

He sinks, his long-fringed lashes coming down to his cheek as slow as the sun until he's buried completely within me, and I love the burn of him inside, love the blinding pleasure I can see in his open mouth, his trembling arms. 

He pauses there, and the feeling of overwhelming fullness burns as I exhale a slow breath. I bring my legs up between us, and he helps me rest them on his shoulders. The little duct tape residue on my ankles sticks me to him, as if it knows we belong together. Just like this. 

It almost seems like it takes effort for Harry to begin to move, sliding himself out just halfway before bringing his hips into me again. 

He establishes a slow rhythm, barely able to open his eyes against infinite pleasure, before he brings his right hand down between us, where we're joined. His still-wet hand rubs gentle circles around me where I'm holding him so tightly before it slides upwards, and the warm slickness of his fist around my cock feels so good I sob. 

I want to say his name, but I can't. I want to tell him he's the only one who's ever been inside me like this, the only one I ever wanted this way. But what comes out of my lips is more like a whimper, and when he hears it, he bucks his hips into me. 

His pace quickens against me, matches by his hand. His thumb swirls around my head and I feel the euphoric tightening begin to increase inside me like we're glowing, and all I can feel is him.

His hips rock faster, his breath shuddering and his eyes on my cock as he pumps me quicker, and I know he's so close. 

“Love you,” I whisper, just before ecstatic sweetness pours over me, and I release in hard, desperate streams between us. 

He makes a sound almost like he's in pain, a low cry that I know better than anyone, and his mouth crashes over mine again as I feel him pulse inside me, the moan of his intense pleasure resonating directly from his chest into mine. 

When it subsides, and he eases himself from my body, he lies on his side, facing me, his eyes a garden of faith. 

Just like always, no words are necessary. His eyes sing to mine and tell me everything I need to know. 

We stay like that, blissfully satisfied and luminous in our love, until the champagne sunlight beams in daisy bright, and he reaches to take the crown of roses from my head, placing it on his own.

Suddenly, the chorus of “Teenage Dirtbag” rings out, and it's my phone, vibrating against the hardwood. We both laugh because that's my ringtone for Niall. 

The spell broken, he rolls to retrieve the scissors from earlier to cut the duct tape from my wrists.

This is the first time I've actually seen it.

“You used One Direction duct tape?!” 

He laughs as he tosses me my phone. 

“It reminded me of how we met.”


End file.
